Got a Brand New Gun, Baby
by KaliTracer
Summary: Racing against time and despair to rescue Q, James Bond must search and find the missing pieces to finally put an end to a new and twisted game. But with MI6 losing hope, 007 doesn't know if he'll be able to save the one man his heart can't afford to lose. Sequel to It's All Fire and Brimstone, Baby. Slash*
1. Chapter 1

Something is piercing his brain just above his right temple Mycroft figures. His fingers rotate and press on the area but it does little to alleviate the pain. He knew he shouldn't have had that third cup of tea and now his brain was dealing with the rush of caffeine.

Grumbling from his stomach reminds him that he hasn't taken a break for lunch and since the clock reads just after six it probably is best to assume he won't make it home in time to catch Gregory for dinner. The whole situation within MI6 was probably to blame for the headache.

Over the years he had had always strived to devote as much time to his youngest brother as to Sherlock. It had become clear when Sherlock was a teen that he would need the attention a thousand times more than young Alexander.

Years had estranged them all and now to find out that some lunatic was hunting him set Mycroft into full defense mode. He had half a mind to pull Alexander in and require some sort of round the clock security.

However if he knew anything about either of his brothers then he knew with certainty that it wouldn't work. Sherlock would burn down the safe house and Alexander would simply hack through any potential security. There would be more of a struggle keeping the security in place than keeping him secure.

Digging his fingers into the spot of pain, Mycroft tried to breathe through the anxiety. He could keep it together for a little longer. MI6 wasn't completely deficient and Andrew Wells was bound to make a mistake soon. James Bond seemed able to keep his brother safe for the time being.

Mycroft flipped open his file on double-o seven and tried to review it again, two fingers still pressed into his temple.

The phone rings, cutting off his reading and he snatches it up.

"Mycroft Holmes," he snaps. He would apologize only to the PM for his tone and he doubted she was calling this late in the evening.

The person on the end is his one main contact within MI6. She speaks for a moment and utters the one phrase that Mycroft had been treading. He stands and then promptly sits back down, as his knees won't support him.

She stops and he can only mutter out a "No, dear lord," in response.

Blood coats his fingers in the most disconcerting way and, even as he watches the ambulance rush off, Luca inside, Bond can't help but feeling that he's lost two more people that night.

Lights flash white and blue in the surprisingly few cars now parked around the street. He turns from the street and goes back inside. There are few people inside, most pulling bullets from walls or upstairs looking at the window they broke in through.

Tanner has his laptop on a cleared portion of the kitchen island, typing away frantically amidst broke ceramics and destroyed fruit. His shirt, the same one as days prior is now wrinkled beyond salvation, his jacket gone, seemingly professionalism damned.

In the middle of the living room, staring mournfully at the blood stain on the carpet is M, suit crisp and clean a day prior, now also showing signs of abuse. The sleeves of his jacket deeply creased, and waistcoat looking stretched in the way clothes get when they've been slept in.

"They used a rock," Eve says, coming down the steps toward Bond. "It probably caught Q by surprise and he ran from the room. They entered through the front door, shooting Caldwell and grabbing Q. You interrupted probably only a few seconds after they had gotten hands on him."

Bond looks at her, nods and heads for his wet bar, noting with some sadness when he approaches that they had shot and destroyed his scotch decanter. "Bastards," he mutters under his breath.

"I'm sorry, Bond," M says., and for a moment 007 thinks he's talking about the scotch, then he glances over and sees the look M is giving him.

"I should have realized that this could have happened," M continues, and shakes his head, eyes going back to the blood stain that probably isn't going to come out of the rug.

"What is our next move?" Bond asks, knowing he could get lost in 'should have's and 'what if's if he started down that path.

"Q-branch is looking into the mobiles of the dead attackers, trying to match anything to a physical location that we can raid," Tanner says, reporting even though no one had been speaking directly to him.

"How long will that take?" M asks.

"The night easily. We are going back and triangulating several dozen calls," Tanner replies, both explaining why the delay and not mentioning that the person who would be best suited for this task is now missing.

"Q-branch should be mostly up and running, transfer what you have and get back there to supervise. I'm putting you in charge until we get this mess sorted. Recall double-ohs nine and three. I want them both to meet me there for assignments," M straightens looking at the other agents. "This is our only priority right now. The rest of the world can burn for all I bloody care. Everyone reports in to me for new assignments. Hand things off to other agencies or bury them. I want only sections two and four working on the other items the rest of you, _this is your case._"


	2. Chapter 2

The world is blurry when Q swims back to consciousness. He reaches up to feel for his glasses, but his right wrist is yanked back with a sharp clank of metal. Memory starts filling in some gaps, he remembers Bond's flat, and the fight, hands dragging him away.

Sitting up, his stomach lurches as he remembers Luca's body sprawled out on the floor, blood seeping from an open gun wound. He wishes instantly he didn't, but he does.

There isn't much light wherever he is, and Q know without a doubt that he is somewhere Andrew Wells wants him to be.

As he stands, he notes that his right wrist is handcuffed to the side of what seems to be bars. Well Andrew always did imply the next time he got his hands on Q, that the younger man would be put into a cage like a good pet.

His clothes are mostly intact, though his glasses are missing. Still in his pajamas seemed weird, but he tries to not think about it. At least, he thought, no one had changed him. Everything is blurry outside of his arms reach.

Making his way around, Q notes that he can reach the door but only if he stretches and pulls the chain taunt. It digs into his wrist, hurting in a way that sends fresh adrenaline through his system. He's grateful for it, and hopes it will clear the remaining cobwebs from his mind.

Seeing as he isn't going anywhere, he does a quick catalog of what hurts. His shoulder is a dull throb that he's ignored so far and despite rolling it around, nothing seems to send any fresh pain. Touching gently over his face, there are bruises to his face from the kidnapping to add to the gash from the shooting.

Clearing his throat, Q does wince. It hurts and he bets his voice will croak whenever he speaks next. He prays he hasn't damaged anything vital. Overall though the pain is mostly stiffness that has crept in from sleeping on the hard metal cage floor. He paces some more, but eventually gets bored and sits.

It doesn't take long for the lights to come on full brightness, making Q blink rapidly to adjust. Figures move in, but they aren't familiar, what features he can make out.

"Alex, Alex, Alex," a chilling voice says, as the three figures part. Two more walk in and one is exactly who Q expected.

"Andrew," he replies, not shocked when his voice cracks. He rubs his throat and winces.

"Shush, pet. You put up quite the struggle, and sadly you suffered a bit," Andrew says, as he smoothed hand over his brown hair.

"There some tea and your glasses. I took the liberty of repairing them as one of the frame was cracked in your resistance." He gestures to the fourth person and short woman comes forward carrying a tray with a cup of tea and indeed his glasses. Q pulls them close to examine them but he can't tell where the crack had been.

Putting them on, he ignores the cup of tea to survey the remaining three men. He assumes these are the men that took him. He thought there had been four surviving but he didn't question it.

"One of your captures sadly passed from a bullet Double-oh seven put in his back," Andrew looks sharp at the door when it opens. Q can't see it from his cage, it seems down the hallway at the front of the room. Another man comes forward into the room.

"Ah, Jean. I'm sure you're glad to see our prize as much as I am," Andrew says, patting the other man on the shoulder.

The elusive Jean isn't what Q was expecting. Instead of another enforcer type, Jean is slight, lithe even. His black hair is cropped short to his scalp and his eyes look the razors that did it. Jean smiles, showing off straight and white teeth that go at odds with his bent, probably from a bad break, nose.

"Now, back to what I was saying. You put up such a struggle, pet. It was almost as if you didn't want to return to me and that hurts," Andrew says, grinning. It isn't the grin that Q loved in the club that night. Instead he looks feral and Q is almost grateful to be in the cage away from it.

"I suppose it hurts almost as much as the bruises the bad men put on your pretty face," Andrew frowns at that, walking around the cage. Q tracks his movement, but his instinct to hold still in the face of a predator.

"I told them not to, you were supposed to be pristine. I really didn't want you to be injured. It interferes with my plans. Of course, so does have witnesses," Andrew says casually. Q's eyes snap to his kidnappers as they seem to reach the same conclusion.

None of them are quick enough though, Jean draws his gun and executes them all with a shot to the head. Q gasps, hand coming to his mouth as he looks away. The body slum to the floor with short thuds, and Q squeezes his eyes shut trying to hear the sounds.

"Now, pet, I'm sorry to just run, but you see I have to set up my plans for your darling James Bond. His bloody corpse will soon be joining these three," Andrew says. Q looks over at the man, trying to remember his training, anything to remember how he should act after seeing an execution.

Reaching through the bars, Andrew grabs the chain and pulls Q closer, who stumbles from the yank against his wrist.

"Don't worry pet, it won't be long at all before you and I will finally be together just like before," Andrew runs a hand over the bruise on Q's cheek before letting go.

Jean and Andrew leave the room, Wells leading the way.

People come in and gather up the bodies, but Q doesn't see them. He sits on the floor of the cage, wedging himself in the corner closest to where his chain connects to the bars. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he tries to shut out the fear that sits in him and grows.

Sitting in Q's office feels wrong in a thousand different ways, Bond thinks. He had hoped that coming in, and being with Q's stuff, that somehow he'd feel connected. So far, he just felt like he was imposing and alone.

Outside the office, construction was all ready underway, men were putting up new screens. Techs, some with bandages or slings on, were working on a multitude of wires. The quiet atmosphere seemed to charge everything with the feeling that they were all mourning the loss of Q, instead of just his kidnapping. Some were whispering quietly amongst themselves. Others were clutching tea mugs, staring blankly at bullet holes in CPUs.

It was even worse among the agents' desks. They had been separate from the fight, and most were twitchy, paranoid, feeling like any minute now the bullets would start flying again.

All members of Q-branch were having to go through psychiatric clearing before they could resume their active duties. The ones really running things were the lucky few who had either been out of the office for lunch or simply off for the day. Without their Quartermaster, they seemed like ducklings running around looking for their mother duck.

For a moment, Bond just watched, taking in the activity, imagining for a moment, what Q would be doing if he were there. He could see Q directing the crew men, fussing about at the state of the computers, and generally making a nuisance out of himself. Bond smiled as he thought of Q carrying around his favorite Scrabble mug, gesturing angrily to workers who thought their tools could sit on top of a computer tower. He'd be a fright to have to deal with, muttering threats about wiping workers' credit scores and marching around demanding underlings to watch the workers with both eyes at all times.

Bond could imagine tugging Q in, holding him close just to enjoy the way it would shut the younger man up for a moment. He would herd Q out of the office, ensuring him that the ducklings would be able to carry on in his absence while they had a meal, Q protesting all the way.

Looking once again around Q-branch, 007 sighed softly, because in seeing the reality that they were left with, they were all lost without Q.

James Bond most of all.


End file.
